


Shadows and Lies

by shiplocks_of_love



Series: 221Broadchurch [2]
Category: Broadchurch, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Don’t copy to another site, M/M, Secrets, Sequel, Sherlock x Broadchurch crossover fic, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 01:16:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17909249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: Ellie Miller visits Baker Street on a snowy February day. She deduces a thing or two.





	Shadows and Lies

**Author's Note:**

> A spoilery sequel to [The Darkness Within, So Close](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646553/chapters/31342053), so it will make more sense if you have read that one first.  
> As with TDWSC, the title comes from the lyrics of “So Close”, from the soundtrack of _Broadchurch_ ([Youtube ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2cGxy-ZHIs), [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/3Gs762VcoPGM8XqZ2hIVpD))

The February snow crunches under Ellie’s feet. She rubs her gloved hands for warmth; London shivers under an unusually cold spell, and a few snowflakes flurry in the wake of last night’s snow storm.

She stops and dithers briefly in front of the black door, the golden ‘221B’ sign topped with tiny mounds of snow, and wonders whether she should use the brass knocker or the doorbell. She decides for the latter. A few moments pass before the faint creaking of old wooden stairs gives way to soft thumping on the hallway.

John opens the door, taking only the briefest of moments to place the woman in front of him in the correct time and space. “Ellie! Oh wow! What a surprise! Come in, come in!”

“Hi, John! Hope I’m not intruding.” Ellie flashes him a sincere, toothy grin and steps in. John closes the door on the cold grey afternoon outside.

“Not at all. Here, let me help you.” John helps her to disrobe of her heavy coat and hangs it by the door. Ellie takes off her gloves and stuffs them in her handbag. John opens his arms in invitation, and they share a warm hug. “It’s good to see you. Our flat is upstairs; come on, you’re just in time for tea.”

Ellie takes a brief look around the hallway before following John up the narrow staircase. That’s when she hears it – the sounds of violin playing, a soft melody permeating the twilight. “Having a quiet afternoon with your music collection?”

“Oh, no, that’s Sherlock. He plays the violin,” he replies casually, not even glancing back.

She gapes at his back, step almost faltering. Not that music was her specialty, but what is seeping from behind the door is _stunning_. “Wow, he’s good, isn’t he?”

John looks over his shoulder with unmistakable fondness. “Yeah, he is.” He pushes the door to the flat open and steps aside in an inviting gesture.

Ellie looks around in awe. She has stepped in what is obviously the living-room, large windows facing the darkening Baker Street, a few snowflakes still lingering on the window panes, framed by heavy curtains. The old-fashioned damask wallpaper would give the room an oppressive atmosphere but whoever decorated the flat used different colours and patterns on all walls, giving it a modern touch. Then, there’s the décor: eclectic, heavy bookshelves sighing with the weight of old tomes in contrast with glass display cabinets.

Sherlock sways gently by a window, eyes closed, playing something Ellie does not recognise – not that she would be able to identify anything but the more well-known classic pieces, but still. He’s wearing a silky dressing gown that undulates in tempo with his right arm as it draws the bow gently back and forth across the strings; the gown is open over immaculate dark suit trousers and a white shirt. Ellie stares at him, a smile of admiration plastered on her face, while John quietly clicks the door closed behind them. Judging by John’s own casual attire, they were indeed just having a quiet afternoon in.

Or… were they? Something catches her eye to her right, and a quick glance reveals a wall plastered with photos, maps, hand-written notes. 

Sherlock imbues the final note with an extra vibrato and opens his eyes. “Ellie Miller. Welcome; what do we owe the pleasure?” He sets down the violin and releases the bow.

“Hello, Sherlock. Just visiting London with the kids and my sister, do some shopping. That sort of thing.” She stretches her hand and Sherlock gives her a firm handshake.

John lays a gentle hand on her bicep. “Take a seat by the fire; I’ll put the kettle on.” Ellie hesitates between the sleek dark leather armchair and the cushy red one but decides for the latter when Sherlock slides into the first. She sinks into the soft cushions and stretches her tired legs towards the hearth.

“You look well, Ellie,” Sherlock comments, his apparent disinterest for small talk betrayed by a warm smile.

Ellie tucks a curl behind her ear and smiles back. “Ah, it’s good to have a few days off. There’s an exhibit on the history of rock at the V&A Tom wanted to go to, so we made a getaway out of it.”

Sherlock frowns, “History of rock is usually termed ‘geology’, you know.”

“Rock’n’ _roll_ , Sherlock!” Ellie laughs. Sherlock gives her a sly look – the berk was having her on, after all. She looks around and points to the far wall with her chin. “Incident room?”

“In a sense, yes. Just about to solve a case. Embezzlement. Something is missing, though.” Sherlock casts a distracted glance at the wall, then focuses back his attention on Ellie. “I did not think you were the type to take random holidays out of season.”

“Christmas is always a bit hectic, and London is less expensive this time of the year, so… it’s nice to take a few relaxing days off. You should try it, Sherlock.” Ellie smirks, predicting an eye-roll.

A snort of agreement sounds from the kitchen. “That one, going on a holiday? Only if there’s a triple murder.”

Even Sherlock eyes John in disbelief as Ellie turns around to glare at him. John cringes, staring at the teapot as if it could save him. “Sorry, that’s… that wasn’t why we went to Broadchurch. I mean, it was, but not for the holiday part, I…” he clears his throat and chances a glance towards the living-room. Ellie feels a corner of her mouth betray her, tugging itself into a smile; chuckles rumble from Sherlock, and that seals it: they are now both laughing, a flummoxed John finally giving in and joining the collective laughter.

Ellie shifts to face Sherlock, straightens her back and wipes a tear of mirth. “Well, let’s see what next summer has to offer on the Jurassic Coast, hey?” As their giggles die off, John brings out the tea tray, goes back to the kitchen to get a plate of biscuits, and returns to start serving tea. He passes a cup to Ellie and another to Sherlock with a soft squeeze on his forearm. Sherlock accepts the cup with a fond look at John and a soft ‘thank you’. _Interesting_.

They share a few moments of easy conversation; the fire crackles in the background and suffuses the room with that warm, comfortable feeling Ellie picked up on as soon as she had stepped in the flat. Her sister is with the kids at the London Zoo; Ellie had asked Tom if he wanted to join her for a quick visit at 221B, but he had declined, and she had not insisted. The events of half a year ago weigh on their minds – Ellie knows Tom still feels embarrassment at John having been abducted while out looking for him. John, sitting on ‘the client’s chair’, smiles with gentleness and assures Ellie there are no feelings of blame from his side. As Sherlock tries to steal a fourth biscuit from their shared plate, John bats his hand away.

“Stop it, Sherlock, you’ve had enough.”

“You’re always complaining I don’t eat enough!”

“You don’t eat enough _real food_ , heavens know how biscuits don’t last long in this place!”

“And whose fault is that?”

“How is _your_ overeating of biscuits _my_ fault?”

“You keep purchasing my favourites!”

Ellie observes the tennis match of a banter between the two men. It is light and infused with amusement, neither of them arguing with heat, eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. In fact, their whole demeanour is so oddly domestic one would be forgiven to believe they were married to each other. They finish each other’s sentences, mirror gestures, huff and scowl and smile and roll their eyes in tandem, and exchange knowing looks, as if words were mostly superfluous. Maybe they are.

John clears his throat and turns to Ellie. “So. How is DI Hardy doing?”

“He’s… surprisingly okay. Keeping himself busy. There was a lot of paperwork related to the Moran case.” Ellie shifts in her seat and flicks her gaze away from Sherlock’s intense scrutiny. She can’t go into details. Alec Hardy had decided at first not to pursue the mystery of Moran’s sister, but as time went by, it was almost impossible to ignore it. Ellie’s actions had to be thoroughly investigated after Moran’s demise. She shakes away the memory. “But that’s all in the past now. Things have been pretty quiet since then, just the usual amount of petty crime.”

John looks thoughtfully at her. “Has… Tom’s father shown up again?”

Ellie looks back at him and takes a deep breath before answering. “No. He’s staying away. I think for good, this time. Tom has accepted this. In a way.” She takes a sip of tea to buy time, organise her thoughts. “It’s never really going to be okay, but he knows Joe has to stay away for everybody’s sake. I do question sometimes if it is wise to separate him completely from his father, but…” She does not finish her thought.

It’s Sherlock who replies with a sombre yet kind tone. “Joe had his opportunity for redemption, and he chose to cower away. He is the one who cut off any emotional bonds that were still worth keeping. Masked himself behind shadows and lies.”

Not for the first time, Ellie wonders about the reputation of Sherlock Holmes as a cold, calculating man. Yes, she witnessed him being abrasive in Broadchurch, and clashing spectacularly with Alec. But the man in front of her radiates sympathy, kindness, even compassion. _If Alec is right… how could this man – these men – cold-blooded murder Mary Morstan? It doesn’t make any sense._

Ellie shakes off those darker thoughts as she senses Sherlock’s keen gaze on her again. She is suddenly exposed under his scrutiny and does not miss how he narrows his eyes just the tiniest amount. She inhales sharply and claps her hands on her thighs. “Well, boys, it’s been lovely to see you, but I better get going and rescue my sister from those pests.” As she makes a fuss of getting up and picking her handbag from the floor, Sherlock addresses her quietly. “You and John have more in common than what you think.”

John gives him a sharp look of warning as Ellie freezes on the spot. She nods and resumes picking up her things in silence. _Shadows and lies_. As she turns to leave, Ellie considers how perhaps things really are not quite as they seem on a surface reading. “We came across details about Ms Morstan’s false identity and her death at the hands of, erm, unknown agents while trying to close the Moran case.” She hesitates. On one hand, they deserve to know more, after all the events from last summer; on the other hand, she is a detective and there are details that should not transpire out of the case. Sherlock and John are, after all, not officially consulting for the Broadchurch police any longer.

But she can’t avoid observing how John stoically avoids a flinch at the mention of Mary Morstan. It’s in the way he clenches and unclenches a fist, how he swallows dry and avoids looking at any of them. Not for the first time, Ellie thinks of the whole thing as an onion, layers upon layers. Some of them rotten.

In the end, a compromise, an incomplete truth. “Well, while it might help establish motive, knowing exactly what happened to Ms Morstan doesn’t influence the outcome of the Moran case. It’s just paperwork now.”

Sherlock hums a noncommittal sound, acknowledging Ellie’s pseudo-explanation. She sees how he knows there’s more to it, but nobody in the room wishes to continue this conversation.

Ellie takes this as a good opportunity to say her final goodbyes, making the men promise a visit to Broadchurch for a less murder-filled holiday sometime. John steps out of the flat to accompany her downstairs; Ellie notices then the staircase to the upper floor. “Oh, a proper townhouse, is it? What’s up there?”

Despite the low light on the landing, John’s blush is unmistakeable. “Ah, it’s the second bedroom. Sherlock’s bedroom is down the kitchen.”

As they start their descent, Ellie notices the fine layer of dust on the handrail leading upstairs. In contrast, the handrail downstairs is dust-free. In fact, the whole upper floor wafts of disuse somehow.

And it’s perhaps this small, simple observation that fits as the last piece of the puzzle.

Ellie smirks knowingly. She can also deduce a thing or two.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to write fluff. Hahahaha.


End file.
